The Cousins' War
by boojummed
Summary: The Crawleys are a family divided, one branch Yorkist and the other Lancastrian. In summer 1485, the world changes for all of them when King Richard is defeated in battle by Henry Tudor. Mainly M/M, but featuring Sybil and others.


CHAPTER ONE

-22nd August 1485-

Malton Castle  
Yorkshire

The Countess of Grantham and her three daughters and their ladies sat in the great hall, working distractedly at their embroidery. It was a hot, muggy summer day, but beyond that it had the potential to change their lives forever, and none of them could forget it.

"Mary, do you think he could win?" asked Sybil, keeping her voice low so as not to disturb their mother.

"The Tudor?" Mary retorted, her voice filled with as much contempt as she could muster. "I think it is very unlikely." She stabbed her needle through the cloth and yanked the thread, which broke.

"But not impossible," put in Edith, from where she sat on the opposite side of the half-finished altar cloth, quiet and smug as ever.

Mary sighed heavily as she fixed her thread. "You say that as if it were a good thing!" She turned back to her youngest sister. "His Grace has far more battle experience, _and _twice the army."

"The Tudor's soldiers are mostly French mercenaries and Welshmen, or so they say," Sybil said wisely.

"Who says?" Edith asked.

"People," Sybil replied with a shrug. She had long resented being stuck in Yorkshire, and frequently escaped her nurse to spend time with people she really ought not to and find out what was happening elsewhere. She was very clever at it too; her sunny disposition concealed a true knack for deception.

But Mary knew, of course. There was little she did not know about her youngest sister. And she was equally interested in the goings-on beyond Malton, so Sybil reported all she had heard.

Edith frowned, and began to say something, but Mary cut her off. "It's true," she said. "At least His Grace is English through and through, whatever else they may say of him. The Tudor is practically French!"

"So are we," Edith pointed out.

"We most certainly are not!" Mary exclaimed.

That attracted the attention of their mother. "Girls, _s'il-vous-plait_!" the countess snapped. "Your father could be in danger and still you bicker like little children!"

At the mention of their father, the girls were immediately abashed, and murmured their apologies.

"I am going to the chapel," Clare continued. "You may either stay here and work silently, or come with me."

Edith chose to go. She was the most pious of the sisters, perhaps by necessity, for the devout countess had long ago selected this daughter to be the one to enter the Church.

Clare surveyed her remaining daughters with an almost hopeless expression on her face. "Lady Sarah," she said finally, to her most trusted lady-in-waiting, "if you would please supervise Lady Mary and Lady Sybil until I return."

"Certainly, madam," Lady Sarah said.

Pious she might be, but Edith was also still a young girl, and she smirked at her sisters triumphantly, having evaded Lady Sarah. But Mary simply bent over her needlework, coolly ignoring her.

"If there is any word from your father, please tell me," Clare concluded, and swept out of the hall, Edith following close behind.

Mary and Sybil returned to their embroidery as their mother had bidden them. And so the afternoon dragged on, the time passing unbearably slowly in the silence. Eventually, Mary could not bear it any longer.

"Lady Sarah, I am going to rejoin my lady mother ," she said. "Sybil, you will come too."

Sybil nodded and followed her as they left the hall. The castle yard was nearly deserted, as every able-bodied man had gone with the earl to fight for their king. There was only Mistress Patmore, plucking a chicken for that night's dinner, and Father Molesley, pacing as he read from his Bible.

"His Grace and Father may need our prayers," Mary said softly, so only Sybil could hear. "I have a terrible feeling that something has gone dreadfully wrong."

* * *

That evening, as the Crawley ladies sat at dinner, they heard a commotion outside as hooves pounded over the drawbridge and into the yard. Sybil ran over to the window to look, and she saw a group of knights dismounting. Though it was nearly dark, she could still make out the Crawley standard, and she knew who they were.

"Father!" she cried. One of the men pulled off his helmet and looked up at the window, and it was indeed the earl. She waved enthusiastically before running back to her mother.

"He's home, Mother, he's safe!"

"Dieu merci," Clare murmured, crossing herself. In a few moments, Robert had come upstairs. It took but one look at his solemn expression for his family to know what had happened.

"We lost," Robert said heavily. "The king is dead."

Clare gasped and nearly collapsed, but Lady Sarah caught her before she fell. "Dead!" she echoed. "No! How can it be?"

"Traitors, the lot of them!" he said viciously. "His Grace fought valiantly but it was not enough. Carson, a drink, please." He sat down heavily, and the steward reappeared moments later with a goblet of wine for him. He took a long draught before resuming his tale.

"His Grace signaled for Percy to come in with his men, but Percy did not respond, the coward! Richard ought never have trusted him."

Their northern neighbor had once been a loyal Lancastrian. For the past several years, he had served King Edward and King Richard, but perhaps he had merely been waiting for his moment all along.

"At that, the king went to find the Tudor himself, and it was then that Stanley chose to enter the fray—on Tudor's side. His Grace took too few men, and was quickly outnumbered. We stood no chance."

Robert dropped his head into his hands and sighed. "I do not know what will happen to us now."

"Are our men all right?" Clare asked gently. "Did we lose anyone?"

"William Mason was killed, and Edward Kent, and several others from the farms. Sir Thomas was injured." He appeared to be going through a mental list. "And my cousin Lord Stamford was injured, but not badly," he added.

"Reginald was there!"

"He was, and so was his son."

The matter of the Lancaster cousins was a delicate one among the Grantham family, and tonight they felt less inclined than usual to speak of those others.

So Clare said, "I am only thankful that you are safe, mon chéri."

Robert smiled wearily at that. "I cannot tell you how it gladdens my heart to see you," he replied, "_all _of you." He held out his arms for his daughters, and they went to him.

"We will be all right, Father," Sybil said. "I know it."

He kissed the top of her head. "I do wish I shared your confidence, poppet."

* * *

Stamford Hall  
Yorkshire

Also that evening, Sir Matthew rode into the courtyard at the head of a group of knights. He had not seen his childhood home in nigh on five years, since he and his father had fled to Brittany to join Henry Tudor. The homecoming was all the sweeter for the good news he brought.

"Matthew!" A cry came from the doorway of the manor, and Matthew quickly recognized his mother. She looked like she had been waiting for them for a long time.

He dismounted and hurried over to her, smiling. "Good news, Mother! We won! The usurper is dead, long live King Henry!"

"King Henry," Isabel echoed, a grin spreading across her face. "We won!" And she threw her arms around her son. "Oh, I am so glad. And where is your father?"

"He was wounded," Matthew said. "But please do not worry, Mother, it is a minor wound. He will be quite well again very soon."

Isabel crossed herself, relieved. "But he is not here?"

"No. He stayed behind to advise our new king. He sent me ahead to tell you what has happened and tell you not to worry."

Isabel burst into tears, a sight which Matthew was not prepared for from his stoic mother.

"I am all right, truly," she said. "I just never expected such happy news, after all this time!" She took his hand. "Come, we ought to tell everyone!" She led him into the great hall, where much of the household was assembled for dinner. When they spotted the young lord, the babble of voices quietened and they turned their attention to him.

"We won! Richard is dead!" Matthew announced, and a cheer erupted from everyone. "By the grace of God, Henry Tudor was crowned king on Ambion Hill this morning. Long live King Henry the Seventh!"

"Long live King Henry the Seventh!" the household echoed.

* * *

After dinner, Matthew sat with his mother in her chamber upstairs. Lady Bryan had gone to bed, and it was just the two of them as he told of all that had happened that day, during the battle and since.

"And what of the old king?" Isabel asked.

Matthew hesitated. "He—he will be buried in the Greyfriars church in Leicester, two days hence," he replied.

Countess Isabel noticed the hesitation. "And...?" she prompted.

"It was not done in a dignified manner, Mother," he said. "I do not think you want to hear the details. Or rather, I do not want to tell them."

Isabel decided not to inquire further. She knew well enough what happened in the aftermath of battle, having seen many in her lifetime. Instead, she changed the subject.

"Did you see our cousin Grantham?"

"Yes, he was there. He fought for King Richard, of course." Matthew stared into the fire. It had been a victory, but the joy had dissipated somewhat over the course of the day. The immediate future would not be easy, as the new king was returned to his homeland after a lifetime of exile and would have to adjust to a people he barely knew, and who barely knew him.

"Do you know what King Henry intends to do about the Yorkists?"

"No. But I imagine we will soon find out."


End file.
